Noir C'est Noir
by WhiteMage103
Summary: One year after the War between RED and BLU, life goes on for BLU Spy. He just wishes is was a bit simpler like Audrey Hepburn movies. SNIPERxSPY
1. Chapter 1

_"Now zen Monsieur, I want you to tell me everything."_

_Bzzzz!_

_Bzzzz!_

_Bzzzz!_

The alarm blasted loudly in the room warning the sleeping form of the new day. Eyes opened wearily and closed again with an irritated sigh. Curse these new inventions; they were more annoying than the classic ringing that the man was used to in the past. He reached out into the dark and felt around for the button while hiding his aching head under the pillow. The alarm seemed to gradually rise in volume and fists replaced the frantic fingers. Finally he smashed the button and the alarm clock died for the day, satisfied that its owner was now awake. A yawn escaped from under the luxurious pillow and a hand threw back the blanket in a lazy toss. The man sat up on the mattress and smoothed his hair back from the heavy lidded eyes.

_"Non, il est impossible."_

He stood in front of the window and pulled the curtains back in a swift motion; it was sunny and the day was already alive with Parisians and tourists below the apartment. He frowned lightly while his eyes adjusted to the light. Fingers fished out a cigarette from his old worn case and the same stick was placed in between his teeth as he searched the pockets of the pants he wore the night before. The zippo lighter always felt cool and welcoming in his hands, just like the cigarette. He gave it light and breathed in the wonderful smoke; the doctor told him to stop with the smoking, that he would heal over time and get better, but without the calming nicotine, then the dreams would have longer effects than the man was keen on having.

_"Ze first step to 'ealing is to talk about ze past. We 'ave to know if anything may have triggered ze attacks you repeatedly fall victim to. Once you can speak of them, zen your body will accept the idea."_

_"I will never accept zat I endured Hell for the last five years of my life, Monsieur. Five years, that is an eighth of my life spent on a meaningless war." _

He could still smell the whore's perfume emanating from his shirt. He met her at the new disco they built shortly before his return to France; the man could care less about this new form of music, especially that it was mostly, if not all, Americans pretending to be women pretending to be European. The dances were also lazy and obvious copies of past favorites. The whore was much to young for him, at least half his age or even younger; she also spoke horrible French. He knew English fluently and wouldn't have cared if she spoke in her native tongue, but gods, her trying became pure gibberish. He would have ignored it if she was more experienced.

Teeth, really?

_"Most of ze men I have talked to came from many wars and suffer the same zing you do. It takes time, oui, but it's better to get it over with in the beginning."_

_"Zen tell me. 'Ave you ever lost your head and someone kept it frozen in ze refrigerator?"_

The shower was a blessing. Water fell in warm tendrils through his hair and down his body. As he ran the wash over the sweat stained skin, he noticed he was getting thinner, muscles less pronounced as they were when he left. It was also getting a little harder to get out of bed in the morning; forty-one was not the same as thirty-nine and it came with its own problems. The man chuckled to himself; he never could imagine that he'd think himself as an old man, ever.

_"Fine then, let us start in the beginning. Comment vous appellez-vous?"_

The man stepped from the shower and wiped the steam from the mirror. Dark circles rested below his pale blue eyes; gray strands already shimmered in his black hair. He noted that a hair appointment was to be scheduled in the near future; the light stubble also needed to be shaved, but could wait until tomorrow. Despite the gray hairs, he took pride that he didn't have any super definable lines or wrinkles on his face; sure the bags were a problem, but at least he still looked to be in his thirties still. The man then opened the door to the medicine cabinet and began finishing his morning routine.

"... _Je m'appelle Claude Bellaire_."

The man lit another cigarette as he stared out the window again; this time he actually sat in a chair with one leg draped over the arm and cushions. At this point, he was half dressed with black slacks, socks, and an undershirt; inside he could dress however he wanted and no one would care. He couldn't stay professional twenty-four-seven and dress to impress. Eyes darted once in a while to the coffee table were a thin, black book rested and debated if he should write the dream down. The psychologist would pester him about it anyway at the session. He breathed out a cloud of smoke and coughed lightly. Fantasy or not, dreams were not something he kindly let anyone read, even if he paid them every month.

_"But, it wasn't for five years of my life, nor is it the identity I always respond to."_

* * *

It was late in the afternoon in the Outback and slowly cooling off from the summer heat. Slowly meaning still hot as hell and surrounded by desert that makes up the country. A man walks along the bush and dead fauna, following a set of tracks leading further into the wasteland. Behind his yellow shades, he could picked up anything from a mile radius and even more out in the open. It wasn't a great tower in the middle of an abandoned mill, but it was home and more familiar than a tight space surrounded by insane warfare.

Out here was as lethal, but it was quiet.

Speaking of lethal...

Sniper saw the horns and he ducked into the dead grass. Judging by the size of them, it wasn't the largest beast he found in the Outback, but it was enough for a couple weeks of food and a bag of jerky. Quietly he pulled a bullet and slipped it into his gun. The buffalo stuck its head up above the grass as hands cocked the gun and the animal chewed on its cud. Sniper pulled the gun up and rested the butt on his shoulder. The scope shifted and rotated around the animal until he locked on the target. The buffalo ducked its head again for more grass and the man frowned slightly.

"Come on, I got somethin' you can chew on ," he whispered.

The beast picked up its head and Sniper breathed in. He let it out half way and pulled the trigger. With a loud bang, the buffalo fell. Sniper grinned and stood up, practically running to the fallen animal. Despite being smaller than the last one he shot, the buffalo was still massive. The gunman put his hand on the dark hide and felt the heat radiate onto his hand. He inspected the skin trying to find the bullet hole; it was located on the neck, just below the head where the jaws meet. Not quite the headshots he is used to, but it was still a beautiful kill. Sniper took his hat off his head and placed it on his chest for a moment of silence; he used to not do it for animals, but habit for the shots he'd take against BLU's made him do it for every hunt he partook in.

The dying sun beated down on the gunman as he pulled the animal to his van. He thanked the Outback for making him the man that he was. He wouldn't have kept his job for five years if he wasn't good. Sharp eyes, quick wits, and even quicker movements were thanks to this land.

He whipped his brow after reaching the van and walked inside the van to grab his tools to clean the animal. The man had to sit down after entering the vehicle and used his hat as a fan. Sniper coughed once and placed the hat on the table. He pulled the canteen from his bag and took a long drink from it. The cold water was refreshing for his dried throat and he let out a blissful sigh of relief. Sniper wiped his face again pressed the canteen against the sweltering skin. His eyes scanned lazily over the interior of the van and soon stopped at a photograph pinned to the wall beside the table. Sniper turned to face it and smiled in nostalgia at the picture. All members of RED team and himself stared up at him all looking either determined or smug to the photographer. He remember when the actual picture was taken, shortly after their filmed interviews. They were still naive and fresh into this new warfare and just started to act like a team together; Engineer thought it was a good idea to have something to remember everyone by when the whole damn thing was finished.

Actually it had been nearly six months since he heard from anyone and for some since the last day of the fight.

He wondered what the hell they were doing now, if they were even alive. Sniper was sure they were thriving off the generous fortune they earned and lived comfortably. It was probably best to not worry.

His eyes moved over the other photographs he accumulated over the years. There was a few of his parents and one or two of him as a wee tyke. He smiled fondly at the picture of himself carrying a shot gun; even at the age of ten he was always a fan of guns and a talented shot. He remembered his first gun during Christmas: the bright red wrapping was tucked under their tree behind a few other oddly shaped packages. The box was long and thin, drawing the curiosity from the young Sniper. Once he ripped off the paper, wide eyes stared at the box with awe. His mother, a small round woman, looked worryingly at the present.

"Richard, isn't he a bit young to carry a gun with 'im?"

"I was younger than 'im when I got me first gun. If he's not an idiot, he won't hurt himself."

Sniper made his first kill later that day; it was a tree branch, but the young Sniper said he shot the bird and lost it under the grass.

The older Sniper chuckled at the memory and took another long drink of his canteen. One picture stood out above all the others and it stopped the Sniper mid gulp. He knew the subject alright, the traitorous bastard; the smug grin on the face didn't help. Where was he now? After the war, Sniper found him in Teufort Diner, drinking his second cup of coffee and his last in America. Sniper sat beside him and ordered his own cup before addressing him. They talked for who knows how long and told each other about their plans to go back to their respective countries.

_"Figures you'd go to France. Anything from there?"_

_"Just life. Travel from Paris to new destinations; I always wanted to see the world again."_

_The BLU Spy smoked his cigarette and let out a cloud of smoke. Sniper moved his hand over the gloved one of Spy's and lightly twined their fingers together. Spy turned his head and smiled softly._

_"Ya could come to Australia with me. Wide open spaces, all by ourselves and everythin'."_

_Spy chuckled and shook his head. "Non, mon cher. I love to take ze offer, but my life rests back home."_

_Sniper didn't show the hurt on his face, but did let out a sigh. The Frenchman frowned slightly and moved his head to the taller man's shoulder. Sniper didn't look at him as he took a long drink from the coffee mug. Spy chuckled and moved his head to take another drag of his cigarette. _

_"You knew zis day would come. It isn't such a bad thing; you can always visit, whenever you get tired of ze bush country."_

_"Yeah, just thought after everythin' we did, you'd come wit me."_

_"Plans change," Spy replied curtly. "Mine are no exception."_

_Sniper pulled the change for the coffee on the table and the waitress picked it up in passing. Spy frowned as the Australian stood up and stormed for the door. Throwing his own money down, Spy chased after him out to the street._

_"Sniper! Sniper!" the Frenchman called after him._

_The Australian chose to ignore him as he approached his van. He slammed the door and turned on the ignition as Spy tapped on the window to the passenger side of the vehicle. Sniper drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to drown out the spy with the music from his radio._

_"Unlock ze door, Sniper! Sniper!"_

_A pause._

_"Lawrence Mundy, open ze door!"_

_Sniper determinedly shifted gear and hit the gas. Spy jumped out of the way as the van took off to the road and watched as his lover grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared into the horizon. He merely lit another cigarette and mumbled in French. The Australian continued driving; his face was stone cold. Why did the prick have to use his name like that?_

"Wish you were here right now, mate," Sniper mused as he ran a finger over the curve of the man in the photograph.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Plus de cafe, Monsieur_?"

"_Oui, merci beaucoup_."

The young women smiled as she poured the pot of coffee into Spy's mug with careful hands. She was a pretty thing, the man noted, with her short blonde hair that brushed against her chin and her pale skin was dotted with faint freckles. Her thin hands were graceful and she stood with fantastic posture. Her accent is what also grabbed his attention as she walked to fill more orders; the way she carried her vowels were not of French descent. Count on his skills to point that out. It was faintly familiar in the back of his mind where few things were ever remembered. He purposely began drinking his coffee with greater speed in curiosity and hope of flirting with this female.

"_Tu aimes cafe, non?_" she giggled and poured another cup.

"_Peut-etre," he smiled coyly and tapped the chair in front of him with his foot. "Asseyez avec moi. Je desire parler pour tu._"

She looked nervously at Spy and to the surrounding cafe, wary of taking a seat whilst on the job, especially when it seemed this man's intent was obviously not about the menu. He was dashing and well dressed compared to the tourists who wore loud colors and their hair was more expensive than their lives. The young woman then smiled and took a seat across from the gentleman and set the coffee pot down beside her. Spy took the pot and filled the empty mug in front of him, edging it to her. The woman raised an eyebrow and smirked as she reached for the mug, preparing it with cream and sugar.

"_Tu n'etre pas Francaise. Parlons en anglais ou en francais?" Spy asked rather suddenly, confusing the woman._

"Um... en anglais."

The man took another drink of his coffee and coughed. "I would ask if American or European, but zat would be rude; not zat I already brought you from your comfort zone."

"No, it's fine." Definitely something European, but heavier than mere English. Welsh? Scottish? No too light for Scottish; he knew that accent first hand and that, from his experience, would have been near impossible to hide in a French accent.

"Care to answer then before I make an ass of myself?" Spy chuckled.

"I prefer guessing games," she replied with a smirk. "You seem to be good at them."

So she is a fighter? Spy liked that. Exaggeratedly he leaned back in his chair with a finger to his chin in thought, looking as if critiquing a work of art than determining the nationality of this woman. Judging by her skin tone, she was from somewhere with sun and lots of it, but it had been paled due to the French city life. She had a long European face squared off with a strong jaw and her eyes were a soft blue gray, like fog in the early morning. But what rang a bell was the long nose that stood out on her face; it was thin, but curved into a soft hook above her thin lips. She wasn't a Twiggy, but she was beautiful in her own pleasant way; definitely attractive.

"Hmm, German?"

A small laugh. "No, guess again."

"Polish?"

A shake of the head.

"Greek?"

"I take back what I said about you, Monsieur."

Spy frowned. "Austrian?"

"Close."

Spy stared at her and took in more information of the waitress; she is either a liar or the most multicultural Caucasian person he has ever met. Neither of the two noticed the burly gentleman that walked up behind them with an irritated scowl on his round face.

"_Madamoiselle Lorraine! Parle de plus important que de travail?_"

The waitress bolted from her chair and muttered a string of apologies to her boss. Spy merely drank his coffee as if nothing had happened as the two settled the minor issue. He didn't want to keep her long, but the woman decided to prolong the conversation with the petty game, not saying it wasn't fun however. The young woman turned to face him; her face was apologetic and she gave a nervous smile as she grabbed the coffee pot.

"Sorry. Perhaps I shall see you later?"

Spy shrugged. "Perhaps, _mon cherie. Au reviour._"

"G'day, mate."

Spy stopped mid stance and the woman walked away. He blinked and chuckled to himself now realizing what she meant by that. A generous tip was placed on the table and the spy pulled his blazer on as he watched the waitress disappear in a crowd of people on their lunch break. He now knew why she stood out amongst the other waitresses that served him in the past in this establishment; she reminded him of a time shoved into the same spot in the back of his mind. It was a good memory and a horrible one at the same time. He brushed passed the mass of people walking inside to escape the cool late winter air and shoved a cigarette into his mouth.

"_Australienne._"

* * *

"So zis girl you met, 'ave you met her in your past sometime?"

"Non. It wasn't her, but her nationality," Spy told the man.

"What memories does it envoke? We should probably start there. When you first took to notice this madamoiselle, what image first popped into your mind?"

Gods, where should the spy start? The alcohol? First day on the job? The first kiss? Spy took in a deep breath of smoke and blew it out the window. He closed his eyes and began to laugh to himself. The psychologist raised his eyebrow and wrote down a note on the side of his paper.

"Honestly, a jar of piss."

The other man blinked and wrote down another note. "Care to explain? Is this serious or are you making folly, Monsieur Bellaire?"

"Oh no, it is relevant."

Spy pressed the cigarette to his lips again and kept his eyes closed. He remembered the first time he stepped into the dirty van; there were jars everywhere! A few were clean but other were filled with a yellowish liquid that the Frenchman first took as lemonade, but he knew better than to assume after a deep voice behind him started laughing. God, that had been so long ago, only a year and a half from the beginning of his job and a month after they started the affair. Spy's mind wandered into his imagination and he could feel the hot breath lightly puffing on the back of his head and the presence of a much taller individual.

"I 'ave read your journal and I noticed that an individual keeps appearing-"

"Lawrence," Spy interrupted him.

The man blinked and continued. "In your dreams. Is this where the jar of urine becomes relevant? Is this a code or a fetish you shared with this individual?"

"_Mon dieu, non!_" Spy turned to face his shrink, looking offended by the mere assumption that such a vile thing would be linked to his sexual desires. "It is a literal jar of piss, 'is lavatory inside 'is home! _Mon cher_ Docteur Frank, 'ow do you think so lowly of me?"

Dr. Frank smiled and shrugged as he drew a circle around the name Lawrence on the paper. The psychologist read through the journal and started trying to piece things together. A pattern started to take place; whenever this Lawrence person showed up in writing, it was both a term of endearment and a negative response to some issue that the former spy allusioned to. Dr. Frank returned his gaze to the man by the window, now smoking heavier and persistently. He could tell they were reaching a touchy subject by the tap of the shoe and the unseeing glare out the window pane. Perhaps it was still too soon to go further than basic information; nothing more than to paint a picture of this Lawrence.

"Lawrence is Australian, no? Zat why the reaction to the waitress was positive?"

"_Oui_ or maybe she was zat good looking."

"I 'ardly believe it was the latter. Don't take me for a fool, Monsieur Bellaire. I 'ave a PH.D in being a detective for the mind."

Spy chuckled at the comeback and rubbed the dying cigarette in the ashtray. He couldn't say he hated the doctor; he was the first to get him to talk properly after returning to France. The psychologist specialized in cases like his: the war troubled individuals who believed themselves to be perfectly fine until approached by other humans. Dr. Frank was also the first to talk back to him and still have respect for the former spy; for that, the spy felt his information was in good hands.

"_Touche_," he muttered and took his previous seat on the lounge chair across from the psychologist.

"Since zis man has such an effect on your life, what can you tell me about 'im?"

"Nothing much, _mon docteur_. Taller zan myself, trois ans my senior, and ze personality of a loner and a convict," Spy began. " 'E was a fool and more gullible zan a naive child. Professional, 'e called 'imself. HA! More like sentimental."

Dr. Frank coughed. "Zen why call 'im, and I read, _'Mon petit dingo'_?"

"Weakness is a shared trait among ze lonely. In time of war, even ze walls of the brutal fall to comfort."

Spy laid back on the chair and crossed one arm behind his head while the other lifted the cigarette above his head; his eyes stared with fascination over the orange glow, mesmerized by the smoke wisps. Dr. Frank merely watched him and crossed his own legs in thought over the other man; fingers tapped his kneecap and shoe rotated clock-wise. Maybe Spy would want to bring this "Lawrence" to therapy and the psychologist could understand the story on a deeper level than the other was going to tell. This character seemed to be the link to both the problem and the solution to fixing the enigma that was Claude Bellaire.

"Why don't we stop here?" Dr. Frank asked and uncrossed his legs to stand. "We are making a breakthrough, slowly, but surely, _oui_?"

"_Oui_," Spy repeated with a touch of spite on his tongue and put out the cigarette.

"_A bientot, Monsieur Bellaire. Mercredi, pas vrai_?"

Spy nodded and gave the psychologist's hand a firm, but short shake before exiting the office. He stood outside the door and let out a shuddering breath, feeling all emotions flow from his body in a relief to be out of the damn doctor's knowing gaze. Damn him for making a quiet session to fix the broken man uncomfortable by bringing up such a memory. Gloved hands felt around the inner coat of his jacket and found the case of cigarettes he desperately needed. He frowned when he saw one last stick peeked from it's sleeve.

"_Merde_," he whispered and stuck it in his mouth anyway.

He didn't realize his hands were shaking when he held his lighter to the butt of the stick and it made him more angry than anything. The lighter wouldn't click either and he grunted trying a few more times in vain. Spy gritted his teeth, biting hard into the cigarette and feeling the tobacco fall delicately onto his tongue. Suddenly, in a fit of temporary rage, he chucked the lighter as far as he could and it hit the brick wall across from him, breaking in a few pieces on the pavement! Cursing again to himself, he spat the stick onto the ground and smeared it with his shoe. Spy's anger subsided for a moment, giving him the chance to walk away in peace.

Another day ruined by the unknowing Australian and the fucking doctor.


End file.
